


funeral flowers

by choiceism



Category: UP10TION
Genre: Mentions of Violence, Minor Angst, florist wooseok, gang member yein, lots of recurring metaphors, the florist meets gang member au that nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 19:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choiceism/pseuds/choiceism
Summary: in which wooseok finds safety amongst summer storms and funeral bouquets





	funeral flowers

**Author's Note:**

> gangs and flowers seem to be a thing at the moment- so why not put them into one fic?  
> written in one sitting on a whim with little to no planning so please be nice

They meet in August over a bouquet of funeral flowers; lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums. Remembrance, greif, restoration. He catches Wooseok’s attention the moment he steps into the store, gaze sliding over petals and leaves,pulling the dust mask he wears down his face to take in the scent of the roses and the lavender. Wooseok tells himself that it’s his bleached blond hair that captures his attention, catching the sunlight that streams in through the windows- rather than the sharp look in his eyes, the way he seems to be watching his own back, discrete but not enough so to slip Wooseok’s attention.

 

Wooseok ceases his people watching to attend to a customer, inquiring about flowers for his wife’s birthday, stressing over whether to buy roses or tulips (Wooseok steers him in the direction of some orchids instead). He turns, and finds himself face to face with blonde hair and an armful of lilies. 

 

“You said you do funeral arrangements?” He asks, and his voice is melodious, suiting his face but not his guarded expression. Wooseok wonders if he sings. 

 

“I do- what did you have in mind?” He wants flowers for five tables- for a wake rather than the funeral itself- and he needs them within the next two days. He thumbs the edge of a petal as he speaks, somehow absent-minded yet alert in the same instance. Wooseok nods, takes down his order, and asks for a name.

 

“Sunyoul,” He speaks, and Wooseok knows it’s not his real name- not that he was ever expecting him to tell the truth. “What’s yours? So I can tell people to look out for you when you deliver the flowers.”

 

“Wooshin.” Two can play at the game of fake identities- Wooseok thinks, and Sunyoul nods, typing the name into his phone. He lingers a little longer, drifting to the back of the shop to surround himself in forget-me-nots and roses for a little longer, pulling the mask back up over his face to hide the smile that spreads to his features. Wooseok can see it in his eyes regardless. 

 

He leaves soon after, stepping out into the sunlight that outlines him like a halo, looking infinitely too heavenly for someone with a fake name and a stolen carnation tucked into his shirt pocket.

 

-

 

The roses are the first indication to Wooseok that something is unusual.

 

People mill around in their black suits before the wake has even begun, eyeing Wooseok as he places flowers on tables and arranges their petals, conscious of their gaze on his back, daring him to make a sudden movement. There’s a blue rose- fabric petals frayed and faded- upon each of their lapels, a signifier of some sort, for something Wooseok isn’t aware of.

 

Sunyoul approaches him, eyeing the petals that spill out of his arms, white and delicate, flowers that speak of regret and sympathy laid out amongst the blue roses. Sunyoul has his own rose on display, one of its fake petals torn, standing out bright against the dark backdrop of his suit.

 

The second indication that something is so  _ very _ wrong is that Sunyoul has a gun, tucked into a holster under his jacket. Following Wooseok’s line of sight, catching onto the surprise in his eyes, Sunyoul shifts, covering up the weapon with black fabric and a bright smile.

 

“They look lovely,” He speaks sincerely, reaching out to touch a petal with an air of caution that feels heavily out of place on someone with a gun concealed under their blazer. “Thank you for getting them done so quickly.” He smiles in a way that’s too bright for a funeral, too accustomed to death and loss. 

 

“I mean, it’s my job.” Wooseok speaks, and suddenly it’s not just eyes upon him, its ears and attention, everyone focusing in on what he has to say. So he doesn’t speak again, simply places the last bouquet and adjusts it, quick and precise, then bids his dues, smiling hesitantly towards the room full of blue fake roses and funeral flowers. 

 

He really can’t leave fast enough.

 

-

 

Sunyoul is back in his shop within a week.

 

He enters in the midst of a summer storm, caught out in the rain without an umbrella. His blond hair is flattened against his head and into his eyes, chased into the dry with thunder and lightning hot on his heels. He makes eye contact with Wooseok as he removes his coat to shake it dry, as if to prove that he’s safe, acting like one might around a scared pet. 

 

“I hope you don’t mind me stopping here?” He asks, framed in the doorway by ivy and forget-me-nots, a dangerous sort of angel surrounded by flowers and life- both out of place and perfectly at home.

 

Wooseok smiles. “Why would I mind?” Because- how can he be scared of something so pretty? 

 

He closes up the shop later with Sunyoul’s number in his phone and a crown of sunflowers falling apart upon his head that he just couldn’t bring himself to make Sunyoul pay for.

 

-

 

September brings Sunyoul to his door more times than Wooseok can count, inviting himself into the shop to sit amongst the flowers in a puddle of sunlight, a semi-permanent fixture by the leaves and flowerpots. He makes himself at home behind the counter, elbows propped up on the wooden surface with the intent of distracting Wooseok from his customers with questions and smiles, no longer hidden behind masks and guarded expressions. 

 

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” Wooseok remarks, attempting to tie a ribbon around a wedding arrangement as Sunyoul tugs at the end of it, coaxing Wooseok into abandoning his work to tell him about the meanings of violets and sunflowers.

 

“I work unconventional hours.” He shrugs, and Wooseok thinks back to hidden weapons and blue roses. 

 

“Well, I work normal hours, and you’re interrupting them.” Sunyoul slides off the counter, and situates himself amongst the pre-made bouquets at the far end of the shop, fixing Wooseok with a pout. There’s not a single time where Wooseok is able to forget about funeral flowers and the feeling of a room full of dangerous eyes upon him- he just doesn’t care anymore. 

 

Because Wooseok might not know Sunyoul’s name- but he does know that nobody has ever felt more safe.

 

-

 

“Who’s that?” Dongyeol has forced himself into Sunyoul’s usual spot behind the counter of the shop, poking his fingers into a block of foam that Wooseok left to entertain him. Looking up from the chrysanthemums he’s arranging, Wooseok follows Dongyeol’s line of sight to where Sunyoul sits with his back against the wall, reading a book of poetry as he pulls the petals off a cluster of hydrangeas. 

 

“That’s Sunyoul- I don’t know his real name and he likes to destroy my arrangements,” Wooseok smiles as Sunyoul looks up at the mention of his name, dog-earing the page in his book and standing up. He keeps his bag close to him and Wooseok doesn’t want to know what might be inside. Where he was sat, the casualties of the hydrangea petals litter the floor. “Be nice to him- he’s scary.”

 

“Sunyoul, right?” Dongyeol asks, leaning his elbows on the counter and abandoning his block of foam. The remains of it are still stuck under his fingernails. “Wooseok was just telling me about you.” 

 

Wooseok flinches, and Sunyoul smiles, shark-like.

 

When Dongyeol leaves within the hour, heading to his classes with a pocket of plant-feed that would most definitely kill his cacti, Sunyoul jumps up onto the counter, swinging his feet.

 

“Wooseok is a much nicer name than Wooshin.” He speaks, and Wooseok falters at the sound of his name in Sunyoul’s voice, lifting around letters and syllables. He believes that his name has never sounded so nice before. 

 

“I would have told you sooner if you weren’t so shady.” Wooseok frowns, gaze flickering towards the people that pass by outside, unaware of their conversations amongst the flowers and the late morning sunlight. Sunyoul laughs, tugging his bag closer.

 

“There’s nothing shady about me- look,” He opens his bag to papers and poetry books, ink stains from an exploded pen and a blue rose, tucked carefully into the inside pocket. Wooseok carefully avoids the sight of a knife, sheathed next to the pages of an information guide to renaissance art. “See?” 

 

Wooseok nods, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding once the bag is zipped up and slid away from view. The bell above the door rings, and Sunyoul hops off the counter, disappearing back to his corner. The sunlight that floods around him catches in his hair like a broken halo for a fallen angel, settled by the hydrangeas. 

 

-

 

“I want to tell you a secret.” It’s late, Wooseok watering flowers before he locks up for the night, checking over the petals for anything dead and wilting. Sunyoul still hasn’t left, sat up on the counter with the sunset light lingering upon his skin, like it doesn’t want to let him go.

 

“I hope it’s not something nasty.” He hides his curiosity behind sarcasm, snapping the head of a rose that’s wilting slowly in the late September air. He feels Sunyoul walk up behind him, breath falling upon the side of his face as he leans in and whispers into his ear.

 

“My name is Yein, not Sunyoul.” He straightens back up, fixes Wooseok with a hesitant smile, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. The rose head sits in Wooseok’s fingers, petals close to falling.  _ Yein. _

 

And Wooseok knows he’s telling the truth- because he couldn’t think of a name that suited him more. 

 

-

 

Yein is stood at Wooseok’s door- no regard for the fact that it’s 3AM, or that Wooseok never told him his address. There’s confusion first, the initial disorientation of seeing Yein free from flowers and halos of sunlight. Then he notices it- the blood slowly seeping its way through the sleeve of Yein’s shirt, the bruises on his knuckles- and finds, jarringly so, that nothing else matters.

 

“Quick, come inside.” Wooseok says before anyone can see, anyone can hear, shutting the door and locking it as a precaution. He doubts it would be much use.

 

“Why did you come to me?” He asks later, as he rummages through a first aid kit, dragged up from under the kitchen sink, to find disinfectant. There’s no hiding the tremor to his voice, the feeling of fear, of regret, of  _ what have I gotten mixed up in.  _ Yein smiles against the stab wound to his shoulder, head fallen back against the sofa and his body propped up by a mountain of pillows. 

 

“Because you’re where I feel safe,” There’s so much honesty in Yein’s voice, a vulnerability that shakes Wooseok down to the roots of his heart, spreading out through his body. It travels, making itself at home in his veins, a warmth that he knows he’s not going to be shaking any time soon. Yein laughs. “I tell you one secret and now I just can’t stop.”

 

Yein falls asleep on Wooseok’s sofa, arm wrapped haphazard in a bandage tied by hands more used to ribbons and flower stems, soft breaths spilling out into the quiet of Wooseok’s apartment. It’s like he’s always been there, always belonged there, a missing puzzle piece that only just fell into place. 

 

It’s close to 4AM when Wooseok starts to think that it’s not surprise that’s settled in his veins and heart, but something else.

 

-

 

Yein does sing, Wooseok finds out in a karaoke booth in mid-October. 

 

They’re both more than a little tipsy, stumbling over each other with laughter bubbling into the air as they try to deliberate between karaoke and bowling. Yein has a bunch of daisies tucked in his back pocket, stolen from someone’s front lawn with the insistence that Wooseok would look good with them in his hair. 

 

Yein sings like it was all he was born to do, like he’s performing for the whole world rather than to Wooseok and the peeling wall of a karaoke room. 

 

As he watches with stars in his eyes, Wooseok thinks he’s never seen something so beautiful. 

 

-

 

The feeling of a knife held against his neck is not something Wooseok is accustomed to. It’s sudden, a shock of movement, metal catching the street-lamp glow, then cold pressure against his windpipe, a hand tight upon his arm. He’s frozen in place, scared to even breathe as the cars roll by in the distance, oblivious. 

 

“I won’t hurt you if-” The knife falters at Wooseok’s throat as a gun is pulled from underneath Yein’s coat, trained directly in the attacker’s direction.

 

“Let him go.” And if Yein’s voice is usually spring, daffodils and mild weather- then now it’s a storm in summertime, heavy and dangerous, crackling with lightning and vicious intent. If what Wooseok felt when the knife was first angled at his throat was fear, then this was terror, the barrel of Yein’s gun angled over his shoulder and towards the head of the attacker, his arm steady. The night holds its breath around them.

 

The gun goes off, a warning shot into the alley wall behind them, and the attacker runs, pocketing his knife and scrambling away before Wooseok can even catch sight of him. Yein still holds his gun, hands unfaltering and his eyes filled with lightning, staring directly at Wooseok. The brickwork behind them crumbles around the gunshot, flakes of plaster raining down onto the pavement. A car drives past, unaware, and the night still refuses to breathe. 

 

And for the first time in a long while, Wooseok looks at Yein and feels nothing but fear. 

 

Without another word, he turns and runs, away from the storm clouds that hang over Yein like a bad dream. 

 

-

 

Yein doesn’t come to the flower shop the next day, or the day after. Dongyeol asks after him, drinking hot chocolate he found in the shop store room, and all Wooseok can do is shake his head, tell him that he doesn’t know when he’s coming back.  _ If he’s coming back _ goes unspoken.

 

There’s one of his books tucked between the flowerpots, the pages folded over in places he wants to revisit, things he wants to read over and over, things he wants to show Wooseok. There’s his favourite strawberry milk in the fridge in the store room, there’s a note he wrote pinned to the wall behind the counter, neat handwriting and doodles of bunnies and flowers. There’s pieces of him left everywhere, unshakeable.

 

But with the Yein that sits and reads poems amongst the flowers, comes the Yein that fires warning shots into the wall of an alleyway, eyes filled with summer storms, and Wooseok doesn’t know if he can deal with both. 

 

-

 

“Please let me explain.” Yein is at Wooseok’s door in the early hours of the morning once again, lingering in the low lighting of the stairwell like a lost ghost that just can’t move on. And all Wooseok can do is let him in again- because ignoring the idea of Yein is one thing, but ignoring the real thing is a different story entirely. 

 

He sits on Wooseok’s sofa, as if afraid to feel comfortable, knees together and perched as close to the edge as he can without falling.  _ Vulnerable,  _ Wooseok thinks to himself, both the summer storm and the spring weather gone- replaced by an april shower, gloomy and tired, flowers with damp petals and the world heaving a sigh to itself. “All I want to know is that you’re not going to hurt me.” Wooseok admits, and when he meets Yein’s eyes, the other looks as if his heart had shattered behind his ribcage.

 

“I would never hurt you-” He promises, and Wooseok just  _ knows  _ he’s telling the truth. “I’m never going to let anyone else hurt you either.” 

 

And then he explains everything- the gang named Blue Rose, the way he plays vigilante by night, the exhilaration of living life on the edge of life and death, the knowledge that, with him around, the city is just a little bit safer. The blue rose from his bag sits in the palm of his hands, its fake fabric petals torn and faded from years of carrying it close to his heart. “They’re like my family.” He admits, running a thumb over the royal blue petals. And Wooseok understands.

 

-

 

“Do you remember the funeral arrangement you did last time?” Yein brushes mid-December snow from the sleeves of his coat, watching as it melts on the floor of the shop as he removes his gloves. He doesn’t ask directly, but the sentiment hangs in the air, heavy as the frost outside. 

 

“Five tables again?” Wooseok’s voice is quiet as he weaves his way around the counter to gather lilies and carnations, tucked away with their white petals matching the snow outside. Yein nods, and Wooseok gets to work, solemnly tucking flowers into place, tied with ribbon and careful hands. Yein watches him work, a sigh catching in his throat. The shop remains quiet, filled with Christmas lights and wreaths that don’t quite match the mood, out of place. 

 

It’s when he ties the bow on the third bouquet that his hands falter, blinking back tears that cling stubbornly to his eyelashes before falling and landing on the lilies, stretching out their petals like stars in a sky of leaves and ribbon. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Yein’s eyes are wide, reaching over the countertop to brush his fingers against Wooseok’s hand as he reaches up to brush tears away, a bitter laugh catching in the Christmas lights above his head. 

 

“These could be yours someday,” He glances down at the funeral bouquets, with their hidden messages of sympathy and regret, laced through delicate stems and blue ribbon. “I hate knowing that any day I could be arranging your funeral flowers- why do you have to be so dangerous?” Yein’s grip loosens, shock spreading to his features, and Wooseok sees his heart breaking, reflected in his eyes. 

 

“I’m safe though,” He’s on the same side of the counter, drawing Wooseok’s hands away from the flowers in front of him, holding on as if he’s afraid to let go. “If you’re here then I’m the safest I’ve ever been.”

 

“How can you promise that though? How can you say that-” The funeral flowers call him paranoid, and Yein cuts him off.

 

“Do you have any enemies?” The question is sudden, Yein staring towards him with a weighted sort of intensity. The snow falls ever-heavy outside and the street lamps flicker on. Wooseok shakes his head.

 

“No- not that I know of?” Yein is impossibly close, enough for Wooseok to see the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks when he blinks, the snapped ends of his bleached hair, the small scar on the side of his face. 

 

“Then I’m okay. when you’re safe- I am too.” And then Yein kisses him over the lilies and chrysanthemums, while the Christmas lights line the walls like stars.

 

-

 

The wake is in the same place as the last, yet this time Yein meets him at the door, waiting for the kiss that Wooseok presses against his cheek with a smile. Then, from his pocket, Yein pulls a fresh blue rose, its petals clean and unmarked, curling his fingers around it and holding it close. Wooseok watches in confusion, breath caught in his throat as Yein tucks it into his jacket pocket for him, identical to his own one that sits in the lapel of his suit. 

 

“What is-” Wooseok looks down at it, the blue standing out bold against his clothes, something foreign and unfamiliar. Yein takes his hand, suddenly hesitant. 

 

“To show them that you’re family now.” There’s a shyness that creeps into Yein’s words, clinging to the edges of his voice, and Wooseok is brought back to karaoke sessions, to sitting in the back of restaurants with one star ratings, to the sight of Yein in summer, walking into his shop for the first time with a fake name and a halo of sunlight following his every movement. Wooseok smiles, brighter than ever. 

 

“I hope you’re at least going to introduce me to everyone then.” If Wooseok thought Yein sitting peacefully in the corner of the flower shop was beautiful, then seeing him smiling and surrounded by family was something close to radiant. 

 

-

 

They sit in the flower shop as spring melts into summer once again, daffodils clearing to make way for sunflowers and dahlias, filling the shop with colour and sunlight. Yein leans on the countertop as Wooseok stands beside him, carding fingers through his hair, dyed back to a dark brown colour after one too many snapped ends. 

 

The blue rose, its fabric petals faded in the sunlight, sits in a jar beside them, a mark of family, belonging and memories- of holding hands in the cold winter air and kissing over bouquets of funeral flowers. 

 

“You’re cute.” Wooseok muses to himself, stilling his hands in Yein’s hair as he pouts, the smile falling from his face.

 

“I’m not,” He huffs, shaking his head to try and remove Wooseok’s hands. “I’m  _ scary. _ ”

 

So Wooseok kisses him to wipe the frown off his face, satisfied when Yein laughs, unable to school his expression into anything other than a grin. “You couldn’t scare me if you tried.” And it’s true- because Yein has become a part of him, summer storms, hidden knives and all, and Wooseok couldn’t hate it if he tried.

 

A text lights up Yein’s phone, and, as he leaves with a kiss goodbye, his halo of sunlight follows him.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at @sunyouwul on twt if you want to talk!  
> all feedback is very much appreciated!  
> / (•ㅅ•)＼


End file.
